


Problems and Protocols

by Fight_The_Heteronormatives



Series: Adventures in Super-Parenting [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, And not the Armani kind, Captain America's PSAs, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Precious Peter Parker, The Avengers watch the PSAs, Though he has those too, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony has a suit for every occasion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 06:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13312608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_The_Heteronormatives/pseuds/Fight_The_Heteronormatives
Summary: “I…I…” He let out a bone-deep sigh. “I give up. Move over.”Peter shuffled over in surprise as Tony collapsed on the bed, half splayed over Bruce. He let his head flop onto his friend’s, and his legs dangled off the other side. Bruce snatched the last of his jelly beans to his chest, knowing that Tony’s love of food would eventually give out to his loyalty to his fellow scientist.“I must be drunk,” Tony muttered. “Drunk or high. Those are the only explanations for this chain of events. I’m clocking out for a few hours to get sober. If anyone asks, I’m doing something heroic.”





	1. Protocol: Lullaby

Life was actually going pretty well for Peter at the moment. Being a friendly neighborhood Spiderman was a lot less stressful than being an avenger; and having his identity kept secret helped. His aunt… That was another matter. She screamed, cried, and screamed more for about three hours. But eventually, she came around to the idea of Spiderman being a part of who he is – and Mister Stark helping him. She figured that he’d be doing this with or without the added security the new suit offered.

She and the billionaire had had a long, heated, emotional discussion, but under the terms that Mr. Stark took two weekends a month off to help train and tutor him, she allowed the mentorship to continue.

Peter’s days had improved drastically since Homecoming; but his nights had worsened.

Every night, he was back under the rubble of Thoome’s warehouse, unable to breathe and slowly being crushed. He hadn’t felt so utterly powerless since Uncle Ben’s death. The feeling of his ribcage creaking and crumbling under the weight, and of the cold rain freezing his skin haunted his dreams. The smell of ozone and dust, the tang of blood in his mouth, his eyes burning with tears; it was all so vividly real.

He and Ned had theorized about that, the only time Peter had brought it up. In the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, it had said that Captain Roger’s brain had been made high-functioning by the super-soldier serum. Since Peter’s own serum was based off of that, it was likely he had the same thing.

A perfect memory, capable of recording every sight, sound, and smell; and never forgetting. It was a gift for tests – his grades had never looked so good. Although his own serum was imperfect, it was still pretty damn close to the original. However, it was also a curse when it came to things he’d rather forget about.

That night, Peter crawled back into bed at eleven sharp. A curfew was one of the restrictions May had insisted upon; and Tony would have F.R.I.D.A.Y send a suit to pick him up if he was out past that time. He was trying not to bend those rules so soon after them being made; especially with everything still so fresh. But it was hard to remember to be home on time, and to not stay out till way later. Unfortunately, this left him staring at the ceiling for hours upon hours, not daring to close his eyes for fear of the cold sweat he’d wake up to. Like tonight, for instance.

His digital watch read 00:23, and Peter was still wide awake. He’d catalogued every scratch and scuff mark on the ceiling; which was actually pretty impressive, since he’d started pacing up there when he was nervous. His room was a mess, and his head even more so.

“Peter?”

He would never admit it when asked, but he jumped so high his head hit the base of the top bunk. Swearing and heart hammering, he grabbed his mask and shoved it on.

“Karen?” He asked, worried. “What’s up? Is everything okay? Does Mr. Stark need my help?”

“Everything is fine, Peter,” Karen reassured, voice soft and placating. “I was just concerned about you.”

That gave him pause. “Concerned? About… me?” He blinked, frowning. “Why?”

“You are not sleeping at night,” she explained. “If you receive less than ten hours of sleep over the course of two days, I am programmed to interfere and rectify the problem; if it is within my abilities.”

That…That was actually really sweet. His eyes watered a little at the thought of Tony going to all that trouble, though he’d never admit it.

“If you like,” Karen continued, “I could call Mr. Stark for you?”

“No!” Peter yelled a little too quickly. “Uh…No. No, thank you. Are you programmed to do anything else?”

“I could recite Macbeth word for word until you’re asleep,” she offered after a moment of thought. “it is required reading for your grade, and could be beneficial. Studies also show that monotonous noise helps people feel reassured, and they relax more easily.”

Psychology wasn’t Peter’s forte, but that made sound sense to him.

“…That’d be nice,” he finally conceded. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Peter,” She answered. “You can set me down on your nightstand. My speakers are adequate for your hearing.”

Peter did as she said, then curled up against his rumpled, messy covers. Moonlight from outside his window filtered in, covering everything in a soft silver light. His desk was piled high with neatly-organized, completed assignments. The smell of dirty laundry and sweat, though disgusting, was comfortingly familiar. Karen’s smooth, caring voice echoed through the speakers:

“Macbeth, by William Shakespeare, circa 1606. Act one, scene one…”

He closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

 


	2. Protocol: Helicopter Parent

Five minutes and fifty-three seconds. Fifty-two seconds. Fifty-one.

That was how much time was left until Peter could bolt from class. It was Friday, and this weekend was set aside for his bi-monthly upstate trip. In just under six minutes, he’d be free of boring lectures and bullies, and he’d be on his way to upgrading his suit with help from the one and only _Tony Stark._

He stared at the clock intently, as if he could make time go faster by sheer force of will. He didn’t think that was one of his super-powers, but it was worth a try.

Weak, early afternoon light filtered in from the huge windows along one side of the classroom. The air was slowly starting to get chilly, and although some students were clinging to their summer wardrobe, most had the good sense to cover up. His Spanish teacher, Señor Rodriguez’s monotonous voice dragged on, an exquisite form of torture.

“Mr. Parker,” Señor Rodriguez called. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

Peter snapped to attention. What he wanted to say was, _‘Yes. Yes, I do, so if you could hurry the fuck up, I’d appreciate it.’_ However, he knew that would get him detention; the last thing he needed right now. He’d also get a lecture from May, and then one from Tony, whom she had corrupted to her side of every argument.

So instead, he says, “No, Señor. Lo siento, Señor.”

Señor Rodriguez nodded, appeased. Peter’s fluency in Spanish had earned him his teacher’s respect and courtesy, though it wasn’t always enough to help him skate by.

Five minutes and six seconds. Five seconds. Four.

Time passed agonizingly slowly as Señor Rodriguez wrapped up his lesson on verbal modifiers. Even Flash was too busy packing his backpack slowly and carefully to pester Peter as per normal. That week had been one long sprint through hell, and all anybody wanted to do was get the hell out. At long last, the bell rang. Señor Rodriguez tried to maintain some semblance of order, but it was to no avail. Every single person moved at once, like a hive mind, clambering and shoving for right of way. The hallway leading to the front doors looked more like a raging ocean than a corridor. Not an ounce of floor to be seen.

Then, appearing in the hoard like Moses splitting the sea, came Michelle. She stormed through the onslaught, and all but the dumbest managed to find it within themselves to suck in their guts, and give her space to move. 

Peter used the faint reprieve to dart forward, using his small frame to his advantage. Through the chaos of the outside, which he barely managed to squeeze through, he spotted Happy easily. The long, sleek, black limousine stood out among the minivans and Volvos; and with his neat suit, sunglasses, and earpiece, Happy looked fit to escort the president to the White House. He dashed into the backseat, and felt a ton of pressure roll off of him. He was finally free! Only for the next two days, true, but free all the same. There was no feeling in the world quite so sweet.

“Hey, kid,” Happy greeted, as soon as he slid into the driver’s seat. “How was school?”

“Hell.” Peter answered, sinking into the plush leather. “Please, Happy; get me out of here.”

Happy graced the comment with a smile, and put the car into gear.

They made it five minutes down the highway before shit hit the fan.

Peter froze in the middle of putting his earphones in his ears, suddenly alert. His spidey sense – as he’d began calling it – went mad. Every hair on his body stood straight up, and his vision tunneled. Time slowed as the car in front of them swerved, and Peter moved before thinking. He dove through the barrier separating the back and front seats, and twisted so that he landed awkwardly in Happy’s lap. Despite his excellent reflexes, Happy was still human, and hadn’t yet reacted to the change. After that, Peter only had time to do two more things: spin the wheel so that the limo turned with the ram from the other car, and curl his arm around Happy’s head for security’s sake.

A jolt shook the car as their neighbor turned into them, knocking them off course. As if taking that as a signal, the car now in front of them braked, and they hit it head-on.

Time sped up, and Peter was just as lost as Happy. He couldn’t quite tell what happened next. For half a second, he was floating, not touching anything. Then, the car rolled, and Peter found his world spinning, banging, and crashing down. At some point, he must’ve blacked out, because when his senses finally settled, he was looking at sky. Not just through the skylight, either. He was half hanging outside the car door. The car was upside-down, almost completely totaled. Happy was just about conscious, still strapped to his seat. Despite Peter’s best efforts, his head had hit the dashboard. _Damnit!_

Peter squeezed his eyes open and closed, trying to focus. Looking at the world upside-down wasn’t helping, but Peter was nothing if not adaptable; he regularly walked up and down walls, chilled on ceilings for hours at a time. Perspective wasn’t much of a deterrent. Idly, some words Happy was now saying reached his ears through the ringing.

“…Helicopter Parent Proto…”

No sounds made it to his ears for a good few seconds as a result of the ringing from his crash. His breathing felt wet, and his chest ached like it was being crushed. The smell of burnt tarmac and gas fumes bit at his nose, muddling his poor brain further. The hot tar of the road warmed his back through his clothes. His head pounded, and pinpricks of pain bit into his body from almost every point. Shattered glass, perhaps?

His eyes finally focused on what was ahead of him; a figure, walking through smoke and haze. Tall. Masculine. _Armed._

This reached his brain when the man was only a few feet away. Peter tried to move, flexing his fingers and lifting his body with his legs; but the pain was just too much. He hissed at the way the glass shards chipped at his skin. The man reached Peter. He wore some strange device on his torso, and a black bandana covered the lower half of his face. He tilted his head in a puzzled way, as if confused by Peter’s presence.

Peter grit his teeth, and tried to get up again. The man – whoever he was – was having none of that.

He grabbed Peter by the front of his checkered sweater-vest, turned, and threw him. Peter skid across the asphalt, pain screaming from every part of his body. Mercifully, he slipped into a successful tuck-in-roll, only stopping when he hit another overturned car. It seems their crash hadn’t been contained; three more cars had spun and wrecked. All were now empty. The occupants had dragged themselves away, and beyond them, certain people had managed to brake. Those who were boxed in or stuck got out and ran. Those who had the option of reversing, did so.

Sound slowly came back to Peter as the man stepped in front of him again. He could hear screaming, crying, and the crackling of something burning. Groaning, or crying, that he suspected came from himself, also met his ears. Far in the distance, sirens. _Help_. But it wouldn’t mean much; they’d be crushed by this guy, too. People could be _killed._

The man stopped before him, and he tried to wrestle to his feet. He’d landed on his back again, staring up at the man. Peter couldn’t see his mouth, but his brown eyes were crinkled as if he were smiling. It would’ve been a very friendly look, had he not been beating up teens and wrecking cars.

The man chuckled as Peter fell back down, gasping. The metal of the man’s strange harness glinted into Peter’s eyes, stinging them.

At that moment, a shadow fell over them both. The sun was blocked, and Peter could see the man’s face turn white. Looking straight up, his eyes met the murderous mask of an Iron Man suit. It was a newer design, with sharper, more jagged edges. It was painted with silvers, dark greys, and gunmetal blues. The mask was designed to look almost like a skull, and it was armed to the max. Peter flashed back to a time in his childhood, with killer robots and his first unofficial meeting with Iron Man.

_“Get the fuck off the kid.”_

The man raised his arms. Attached to them were blades made of a strange metal. He swung at the suit of armor; in vain. The bright blast of arc-reactor energy made spots dance in front of Peter’s eyes. The man went flying backwards, tumbling over the unforgiving tar. If he ever got back on his feet, it wouldn’t be for a long while.

The gleaming sockets of the mask fixed on Peter in a way that made him think of a camera lens focusing.

“You alright, Underoos?” Tony asked, kneeling beside him.

Peter must’ve swallowed some asphalt at some point, because his answer was an extended, pained groan.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Tony finished for him. “Sit tight, squirt. I gotta check on Happy. BRB.”

Peter’s vision was darkening already, though he was able to see Mr. Stark lunge forward in the suit, thruster’s getting him across the highway in under a moment. The heat from his take-off warmed Peter’s skin further. Tony bent down, ripped the remnants of the car door off, and released the bodyguard with a gentleness Peter hadn’t thought the suit could possess.

That was the last he saw before blacking out.


	3. Protocol: Soccer Mom

That weekend was pretty much a bust. Peter spent the entire time laid up in a private medical facility belonging to Mr. Stark, healing far slower than he would’ve liked. Mr. Stark visited often, sometimes to bring entertainment and games, other times just to check in. After the ferry and Homecoming, Peter’s hero-worship had eased somewhat. It still hit him sometimes that, _‘Holy shit, this is Tony Stark’_. His inner ten-year-old was pissing himself. But the awkwardness had faded, and he had chilled a little.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t nearly as cool as he’d hoped. He couldn’t take any of their painkillers; his body ejected them before they’d had a chance to work. Everything from Advil to elephant tranquilizers; nothing managed to stay in his body. If it wasn’t puked out, it was pissed out; and Peter thought he was starting to give his doctors grey hairs. His clothes were ripped apart during the crash, and were a complete write-off. Tony promised to send him home in an Armani suit, if he liked, and Peter thought he might actually do it.

It was okay, though. He’d white-knuckled his way through worse pain than this. To the contrary, Telling Mr. Stark about that only seemed to make everything worse. His face had blanked, and he’d quickly excused himself. Peter hadn’t truly understood. He had bruised ribs and minor cuts slashed across his entire body. The worst part was the road-rash he’d accumulated. He was missing skin on his face, chest, abdomen, and the front of his thighs. He’d been dunked in a tub of ice to ease the stinging, then covered in a cool, antiseptic paste.     

Happy had it worse – a minor concussion, a cracked wrist, and a broken leg, among other bumps and bruises. He would be laid up for quite some time, but if Peter’s injuries took more than four days to heal, he would be genuinely surprised.

Happy had also broken out of his bed to thank Peter for his quick thinking. He could’ve just jumped from the car and avoided the collision altogether, but instead, he’d risked himself to save Happy. Peter honestly hadn’t thought to escape; he’d only had a second to react, and he’d moved instinctively. He didn’t tell Happy this, though; Tony had told him to learn to take a compliment.

Instead, he’d said, “Anytime. Now, what are the chances of you smuggling me something sweet? Insectoid metabolism, y’know?”

Pepper Potts went live only a few hours later to address the incident. Video footage of the accident hit the news within the hour; along with it, images of Peter being chucked around like a ragdoll. She confirmed that the limo was attacked by an altered human, and that two people had been injured; a chauffeur, and an intern. The chauffeur had been assumed to be escorting Mr. Stark, but it only carried a late intern that the chauffeur had stopped to pick up.

“It was right on the way,” she’d said. “The chauffeur hadn’t thought it a bad idea to just take him himself. No-one was severely injured; but that will not, in any way, lessen the search and prosecution of the attackers. The intern, whom you’ve already confirmed as Peter Parker…” At this, her voice went slightly bitter. They’d confirmed it too fast for them to not have suspected it before; and she hated the kid winding up in the limelight.

“…Will be placed under temporary protective watch, just to ensure all our bases our covered. Now, will there be any questions?”

The previously silent crowd went into hysterics, all of them clamoring for her attention. Peter didn’t think it meant much, or that it would affect him to any great extent. _At the very least_ , he thought smugly, _Flash would be absolutely pissed that he was wrong about Peter lying about the internship with Stark Industries._    

His return to school was hectic on many levels. Reporters clogged up the parking lot, despite the school’s attempts at subterfuge. A bodyguard had been assigned to Peter, and with the school’s permission, would sit through his classes for the next two weeks or so. He would watch during the day, while May would keep an eye at night.

Peter hated it. He could handle himself well enough, even if the media couldn’t know it. He thought this was all just a little…much. Still, Mr. Stark had asked, and Peter could tell the attack had rubbed at Mr. Stark’s guilt complex. So, he sucked it up, and dealt with it. There were three guards, whose names were Jeff, Colin, and Matthew. They rotated shifts every three days, keeping Peter’s classmates on their toes. Jeff was a burly, bald African-American man; Colin was a Scottish immigrant who fit the usual stereotype quite well; and Matthew was an East-Asian former pro-wrestler.

Within a week, a lot of the media had moved on, and his classmates had adjusted. They kept to the background, and Peter found them surprisingly tolerable. They never spoke much, and kept themselves busy; as long as they weren’t checking out a room, or double-checking school security, Peter could forget they existed.

Flash, however, could not.

Two weeks later also happened to be the same time Peter went back upstate to the compound. Peter didn’t think he could be happier to head to the compound than he was before, but he was wrong. He almost cried when he finally got to leave. The crowd was at it’s usual peak rush, but Jeff got almost as wide a berth as Michelle, so it was relatively easy going. They made it all the way to the parking lot before Flash made his move.

“Hey, Penis!” Flash yelled, and one or two of his friends jeered.

Peter ignored them, not in the mood for a fight. The car – a sturdy, armored Jeep this time – was just a few meters away. All he had to do was keep his head down, and-

His spidey sense went off, warning him of impending disaster. He was in the middle of a crowded lot, though; so, he had to let whatever was gonna happen, happen. He and Ned had tested, and he’d learned to judge the severity of whatever was coming. This was soft; not worth outing himself for. That was all the processing time he had. A moment later, a football hit the side of his head hard enough to knock a normal person sideways.

He stumbled, blinking stars out of his eyes. Normally taking a hit like that would be nothing, but his body was still jarred from his crash. That, and he had to keep up appearances. Loud laughter accompanied the hit, and Flash’s lasted longest of all. That is, until Jeff stepped in.

 _“Why the hell would you do that?”_ He demanded, marching to where Flash stood chuckling. “Do you have _any idea_ what you’ve just done?”

He sounded scared. Actually, truly scared. Peter took a moment to double-check that he had his suit in his backpack.

“What’s the matter?” Flash asked, still cocky. “Afraid of a football?”

“You have _no idea_ what you’ve done,” Jeff concluded, seemingly resigned. “Oh, well. Not my job, not my problem. Nice knowing you.”

Jeff went over to a nearby bench, sat down, and pulled out a magazine. Peter didn’t know what was happening, but he braced himself for the worst. No-one was laughing anymore.

“What do you mean, ‘nice knowing you’?” Flash demanded. “What’s happening?”

“Parker’s top priority,” Jeff casually filled in. “He’s working with Stark on some new stuff he’s not legally allowed to talk about; plus, he was attacked. Mr. Stark tends to take that kind of thing seriously.”

Peter heard it before anyone else did. Engines? No, _thrusters._ There was a difference. And they were closing fast. Jeff popped a breath mint into his mouth as he spoke, and flipped a page; completely casual.

He could tell when everyone else picked up on the sound. Loud gasps traveled throughout the crowd they’d accumulated. The breeze got stronger, forcing them to pull their jackets around them tighter. The October chill was not to be reckoned with. Over fifty phones were pulled out of pockets, bags, and neighbor’s hands as an iron man suit descended from the sky, and landed right beside Peter.

It was one of the more traditional suits; completely unmistakable. The red-and-gold gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the glowing eyes narrowed in on Flash. If Peter lived till one hundred-and-two, he will never forget the look on Flash’s face. The sheer terror mixed with instantaneous regret. It was…the perfect end to a shitty week.

The suit looked around, clearly scanning for a threat. The movement was too mechanical for anyone to be in the suit guiding it; but Flash didn’t know that.

“M- Mr.- Mr. Stark!” He squeaked.

Instead of Iron Man’s notorious dry wit, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s stern voice echoed from the suit. Flash jumped five feet in the air.      

“No threat detected. Disengaging offensive action. Awaiting confirmation of resolution.”

Peter could feel a headache blooming behind his eyes. One the one hand, _holy shit._ Tony _sent a suit_ to make sure he was okay. That was…huge. On the other hand, Peter had often stated his desire to be lowkey.

This was _not_ lowkey.

“Confirmed,” Jeff chipped in, standing. He stretched out his tired muscles, and nodded towards the Jeep. Peter followed quickly, head tucked down low. This was going to be such a nightmare come Monday. You could’ve heard a mouse breathing with how quiet it was as Peter half-walked, half-jogged to the car. It was only broken by the sound of a freshman pointing and guffawing.

_“Flash Thompson peed himself!”_

Alas, it was true. Flash’s bladder hadn’t held up under the pressure of nearly being incinerated by Iron Man. The chorus of laughter followed him to the car, and out of the parking lot. Just under ten minutes into the half-hour drive upstate, Peter asked if they could pull into a Starbucks. Jeff easily agreed, and Peter tried to fork over some change to help pay for it.

Jeff snorted, and shook him off. “It’s cool, kid. I’ve got more than enough.”

Once Jeff had his highly complicated, probably toxic, caffeinated concoction, and Peter had his caramel hot chocolate with extra cream, they were back on the road. Now comfortable with something in his hands to fiddle with, Peter started talking.

“He sent a suit,” he said, almost conversationally.

“He sure did,” Jeff said. “Scared the crap out of that bully, too.”

Peter stirred his drink, and chewed his lip. “Does he…Does he really do that for his employees?”

“Some of ‘em,” Jeff answered, eyes focused on the road. The guy didn’t fit in in New York; for one, he seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go, and two, he knew what a turn signal was. “People who work for him for years, like Happy. Friends of his, like Colonel Rhodes and Miss Potts, often get even better treatment.”

Peter hesitated, tapping his cup with nerves. Finally, he asked, “And interns?”

“Nah,” Jeff answered, crossing into the appropriate lane. “Honestly, none of us at the HQ know what to make of you. We all have a bit of a bet going on what the reason is.”

He smiled sheepishly in a semi-apologetic way, and continued. “Most of the bets are on you being his kid. Others include ‘secret clone’, ‘hand-picked heir to Stark Industries’, and ‘innocuous government liaison’. We hit a mark?”   

It took Peter a moment to process that. He supposed he should just be glad ‘vigilante trainee’ wasn’t on the list.

“You’ve caught me,” he smirked. “I’m a secret government agent charged with infiltrating the avenger’s compound, and spying on them for the American military. On a side note, Area Fifty-One is just where they keep Mr. Stark’s childhood toys, and the president is an _amphibian,_ not a _lizard._ ”

Jeff laughed so hard he nearly spun them off the road. He might have some New Yorker in him after all.

 


	4. Protocol: Alarm Clock

The weeks passed. Halloween comes and goes, and it proves to be far worse than Peter had expected. He’d suspected that the crazies would come out around that time, but he could never have predicted the extent of it. For the first time, it took real effort to stay out till his allotted ten-thirty before heading home.

He crawled through his window, and collapsed on the bed. It was 22:46, according to his digital watch, and he dropped off to sleep the moment he hit his pillow. He never even got around to taking off the suit; which proved to be a mistake. He was too tired for even nightmares tonight. Blissful silence covered his brain. He thought he could actually get some real rest, when all of a sudden-

“LEROY JENKINS!” Karen screamed into his ear, and a jolt of electricity buzzed through the suit. Peter jumped in shock, pinning his back to the bottom of the top bunk, breathing coming in and out too fast. The voice had been Karen’s, and he figured the jolt was, too.

 _“Karen!”_ He shrieked. _“What the hell?”_

“Apologies, Peter,” she answered, voice now normal. “I am programmed to wake you up if your heartrate drops too low, too fast; as per the ‘Alarm Clock’ Protocol. I signaled an alert, and jolted you awake. Mr. Stark will be here in T-minus four minutes and twenty-nine seconds.”

Peter gradually got his breathing under control. Grouchily, he made his way back out his window, and settled on the roof to stare at the stars.

Karen was wrong. It only took Mr. Stark about three minutes to get to his place. He would’ve called ahead to reassure him, but he’d soon learnt that trying to stop Mr. Stark from coming to his location after Karen signaled an alert, just freaked him out more. The suit was done in camouflage colors; beige, yellow, and gold sprayed on in a splotchy pattern. It was aerodynamic, and generally much friendlier looking than the one from before. It was the first Peter had ever seen of it.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted, landing almost soundlessly. “You look very conscious.”

“I am,” Peter said. “Now, at least. Did you really put a _defibrillator_ in my suit?”

“Your suit has everything,” Tony answered. “Particularly things that could save your life. Dare I ask what happened?”

“What happened,” Peter explained, sitting up now. “Was that I finished patrol, crawled into bed, and got the _shock of my life._ I don’t know how long my lifespan is, what with the serum and all, but I do know it’s now five years less.”

Tony stepped out of the suit, and took a seat next to him. He wore a pair of pajama pants and a grease-stained vest. Now that the danger had been averted, he’d opted to relax. He was honestly a little amused by the kid’s display, but the worry he’d felt earlier still picked at his brain. His eyes still scanned the kid, checking for hidden injuries or signs of pain; but he found none.

“Kid,” he said, “Your heartrate went from seventy-five beats per minute to three beats per minute in forty seconds.”

Peter gently pried off his mask, staring at Tony with wide eyes. “I…don’t understand. All I did was fall asleep.”

“Boss?” F.R.I.D.A.Y. spoke from the speakers in Tony’s suit, so both vigilantes easily heard her. “According to Mr. Parker’s baseline readings, his lowered heartrate could have been a result of him slipping into REM sleep while wearing the suit.”

Peter almost immediately felt like an idiot. Of course; he’d never slept in the suit before. How could he have been so thoughtless?

“And you couldn’t have told me that,” Mr. Stark complained, _“Before_ I flew all the way out here?”

“Sorry, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. apologized, not sounding sorry at all.

Tony sighed, and made a show of getting comfy. Peter had just cleaned the roof the previous weekend out of boredom, so it actually wasn’t so bad.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Peter said, “Sorry about worrying you.”

“It’s cool, kid,” Mr. Stark reassured. “First time I fell asleep in a suit, I was flying over the Atlantic Ocean. By the time I woke up, I’d accidently flown my ass to India. Violated one or two airspace laws. Scared a couple of locals half to death. The usual.”

Peter snorted, easily able to picture something like that happening. He was actually pretty comfy too, now, but he stretched out to make sure he didn’t accidently fall asleep again. They lay there in silence for some time, neither of them inclined to move, and both too tired to be awkward.

The night sky was never truly visible in New York, the city that never slept; but tonight, it was at least not a dull, black void. The chilly breeze and swift wind didn’t bother them much, but anyone else who had a home to go back to was securely locked indoors. Altogether, it was a nice, quiet night. Just when he thought Mr. Stark might’ve fallen asleep on his roof, Karen’s voice piped up in his ear.

“Peter, you have school tomorrow.” She said, and Peter glanced at his watch. 23:59. Ugh.

He yawned, and crawled to his window. “Well, g’night, Mr. Stark.”

“Leaving so soon?” He asked, also getting up.

“Got to. School ‘morrow.” He stuck his hand to the roof, and lowered himself to window height. “If my grades slip, Aunt May confiscates the suit.”

“a’right then,” Mr. Stark stepped back into the armor, and it carefully started wrapping around him.

“And kid,” he said, “I can’t emphasize this enough. _Do not_ fall asleep in the suit.”

Peter gave him a grin and a mock salute, before dropping back into his bedroom. He heard the Iron Man armor take off as he slipped under the covers.

Peter pulled off his suit with some difficulty, and only had the strength to chuck it on the floor. He’d be ashamed of himself the next morning – _that was a multimillion dollar suit!_ – but right now, he couldn’t care less.

He slept straight through the night.

 


	5. Protocol: Home Sweet Home

Happy was, contrary to his name, not very happy right now. He’d healed fine since his crash, and he was, at long last, back at work. He’d been laid off for two months for his leg, and had become temporarily ambidextrous because of his wrist.

The very first day he was back at work, a snitch of his came forward and leaked the name of who had taken out Happy’s limo. A few old HammerTech loyalists who thought they could get a lucky score in when they’d noted how Happy drove to a certain corner twice a month, picked up a package, and drove back to the compound. They hadn’t expected the ‘package’ to be a kid; and they hadn’t planned on Iron Man showing up so fast to protect him. Rumors abounded, of course, but no-one had any proof of anything.

Two more days of research and planning, and in just a few hours, the FBI had taken them out with very little help. That evening, Tony decided the news should be delivered personally. He invited the Parkers over for dinner, and once word had gotten around, Rhodey and Pepper had insisted on attending, too.

At the last minute, May had to cancel. She said it was fine that Peter went ahead alone, and wished them the best.

It was about eight that morning when Peter arrived, giddy to be there during the week. He breathed in deep the scent of pine and clean air, and felt the sun warm his body. He had a feeling today would be a good day. He was escorted up to the communal area by F.R.I.D.A.Y., where he met Colonel Rhodes for the first time. The man was smiley and kind, and his new disability had little effect on his exuberance. He’d greeted Peter enthusiastically, and then went about corrupting him from bioengineering to astrophysics, much to Tony’s chagrin.

Miss Potts had been professional, but sweet. He’d taken advice from May on how to treat her, and did his best to be as gentlemanly as he could manage.

After discussing the arrests and the trial, they spent some time in the gym. Rhodey had physical therapy, and after the incident the other night, Tony wanted more readings of how Peter’s body worked, rather than simply what it could do. Pepper worked through her phone, making schedule changes and adjustments. It was a day not unlike the others, and just amazing. The added benefit of the other compound residents was a bonus.

He even met Vision, briefly. He’d been polite, but sad. Tony explained that Wanda Maximoff, a previous avenger, had bolted with Steve Rogers, leaving poor Vision heartbroken. Peter quickly changed the subject, knowing that Tony hated discussing the Civil War. That evening, they ate a homemade lasagna that tasted like it was crafted by the angels. It was beautiful. Beyond that lay friendly conversation that turned into banter between Rhodey and Tony, while Pepper watched with secret fondness.

It all felt so…domestic. Normal. _Real._ Not for the first time, Peter asked himself what he did to be lucky enough to warrant being here, and getting to enjoy this.

They were talking with the news on in the background, and all of a sudden, Steve’s name came up. As if on cue, they all stopped to listen closely.

“…declared a war criminal, Captain Steve Rogers, also known to the world as Captain America, was recently spotted in the African country of Chad. Reports are sketchy, but…”

A picture of him appeared on the screen next to the reporter. It was an older image, from the Chitauri invasion; one of him perched on a car, shield on his arm, face stern.

“I hate it when they use that image,” Peter said unthinkingly. “I feel like I’m waiting for him to lecture me on my grades.”

When silence met his remark, he turned to them. They all stared at him with varying degrees of confusion and mild offense.

“What?” He asked.

“Well,” Rhodey said, “That’s definitely one way of putting it.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah. I have the detention speech down pat. I could probably recite it word for word, now.”

“Have you been talking to him?” Tony demanded. Sensing in incoming storm, Peter quickly defended himself.

“No, no. Definitely not. It’s just from his PSAs.” He carefully went back to chewing on his fork, watching the screen. Then, at further silence, he looked back.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never seen the PSAs.”

Still, they looked blank.

“Wait,” he said, realization dawning. _“You’ve never seen the PSAs?”_

Five minutes and one YouTube search later, Peter was pretty sure he’d been promoted from ‘vigilante acquaintance’ to ‘future heir of Stark Industries’. Rhodey was doubled over on the couch, wheezing and clapping like an asthmatic seal, while Tony had tears streaming down his face.

“Oh…Oh, God.” Tony heaved. “That…That is just...”

He dissolved into more laughter, barely able to speak. Pepper had initially tried to maintain a straight face, but she just couldn’t. She clutched her phone to her chest tightly, and had her other hand clamped over her mouth to try and stifle the snorts and guffaws that kept slipping through.

They started with the detention video. Tony had gotten huffy about hypocrisy, but they’d all found it pretty amusing. Peter could quote it word-for-word, like he’d predicted, but he kept that fact to himself. Afterwards, they played the P.E. video. Tony was all but shouting now, while Rhodey laughed.

“You literally got fit off of drugs my dad made! You are fit _because of my dad’s drugs!”_

Peter was laughing now too. He couldn’t help it. Tony’s declaration prompted the Drugs video, where Captain America talked about why they were bad for you. Pepper was chuckling too, now, unable to help herself. Tony remained huffy all the way until the Sex Ed video, which led to their current predicament. The screen went dark, as that was one of the last videos, but they took a good few more minutes for them to compose themselves.

“You know, it’s funny now,” Peter admitted. “But I had to watch the Sex Ed video in a room with thirty other teenagers. My only real memory of these is awkward mortification.”

Pepper choked on another giggle, and seemed to finally catch her breath. Rhodey took a while to right himself, breathing deep. Tony had leaned back, grin plastered on his face.

“God,” he said, “It’s been years since I’ve laughed like that.”

“Ditto,” Rhodey agreed, shaking his head in amusement. 

They sat there for a few more moments, enjoying the quiet. For the first time, Peter had completely relaxed in their headquarters. His age and relative newness often had him feeling left out, but now, he felt at peace. Like he belonged. Then, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoed from the speakers, shattering the moment.

“Boss, it’s eleven PM. Mr. Parker should be going to bed now.”

Peter’s face fell. “c’mon, it’s not like I have school tomorrow!”

However, Tony was already shaking his head. “Go on, kid. You don’t want to mess up your sleep cycle.”

Peter sighed, but stood. He wasn’t going to start a fight with Mr. Stark over something as petty as a curfew; not right now, at least. He headed up to where F.R.I.D.A.Y. said his room for the night was, and crashed surprisingly quickly. If only his sleep could’ve lasted for longer than half-an-hour.

He was woken when his spidey sense went crazy, and he shot upward. Before him, an Iron Man suit stood stock still, watching him. Creeped out to the max, Peter asked, “Tony?” But there was no reply. Peter didn’t sense any serious danger – the feeling that woke him was more of a ‘proximity alert’ than anything else – but he wasn’t yet ready to relax.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Peter asked, “What’s happening?”

“Protocol: ‘Home Sweet Home’ has been initiated,” She explained sweetly. “You are out past your curfew, and the suit is here to take you home.”

“What?” He demanded. “That’s ridiculous! I’m _supposed_ to be here! I’m literally in the compound.”

The suit reached out suddenly, and grasped Peter’s arm with surprising gentleness. It yanked him into a bridal carry, which was about as dignifying as you’d expect it to be, then hit the thrusters, taking off down the hallways, with Peter’s angry yelling trailing behind it. Peter figured he should feel grateful that the suit decided to use the communal area’s balcony, because then at least, Tony saw them as they flew by.

Almost scared to know, Tony asked, “Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y., what was that?”

“The ‘Home Sweet Home’ Protocol, Boss,” she answered casually.

Tony paled. “Shit!” He dropped his glass of whiskey and dove over the couch, grabbing his StarkPad.

“Disengage!” He yelled, glad that Rhodey and Pepper had retired for the night. “Fri, disengage!”

It took a minute or two, but finally the empty suit set down on the balcony. It was his camouflage one from the night before, so at least it was the innovative, gentler one. In its arms, Peter gave Tony the coldest look one could possibly give their role model.

“Hi, Tony,” he greeted. “What’s up?”

Tony pursed his lips in embarrassment, before coming to a decision. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to never tell Rhodey this happened.”

Peter considered. “Two-fifty.”

“Deal.”


	6. Bonus!

Life was going _incredibly_ well for Peter at the moment.

Spiderman and Iron Man teamed up on the regular, and Peter learned to take orders in battle rather than subverting them. He’d only been badly injured once or twice, and never even close to fatally. Rhodey and Ned had met, and Ned had almost died on the spot. He adored War Machine, and Rhodey was thoroughly charmed by the kid’s enthusiasm. He proudly bragged to Tony about having his own fan club now, much to Ned’s ecstasy and Tony’s irritation. Pepper liked him as well, and went as far as to secretly arrange for the kid to work at Stark Industries once he had his IT qualifications.

Peter went over to the compound often, helping to repair and update his suit, and often stayed for dinner. Tony had even agreed to let him tinker with a few of the Iron Man suits, which kept him grinning for hours. Flash Thompson was scared to even stare at him for too long these days, and Michelle’s picture of his face when the suit descended from the sky had been framed and placed in the trophy case at school. Despite the catastrophic circumstances that got him to that point (road-rash is a _bitch),_ life at school was now a breeze for Peter.

Vision and he had spoken a few times more, and he’d seemed fond of him. He didn’t want to press, not knowing Vision’s circumstances with Wanda; but he felt safe enough to talk about Liz Allen, whose dad had tried to murder him. Vision and he had talked a lot after that, prompting the AI to discuss his own pain. All-in-all, he seemed to be doing better.

He didn’t actually think he’d made all that difference to the Avengers. Not until Christmas, at least, when he’d received gifts from just about everyone. Rhodey had sent him an Iron Man T-shirt, and a ‘thank you’ card, for making Tony laugh again. Pepper had gotten his aunt a recipe book, and Peter a good suit to wear to important functions; Armani, like Tony had previously threatened. Vision had gotten him a book on advanced bioengineering, and a book on poetry.

Tony, though, took the cake. He always had to be the one-upper. He got Peter the latest StarkPad and StarkPhone, with several coupons for just about every take away place in town, and a reminder not to let Rhodey guide him down the path to ~~sin~~ astrophysics. Altogether, it was probably the best Christmas of his life. He’d already gotten gifts for them in return; flowers for Pepper, a ‘World’s Okayest Mentor’ mug for Tony, a book of jokes for Happy, a book on human psychology for Vision, and a giant pile of chocolate for Rhodey, who’d been on a strict diet for his PT.

It was while delivering these that he had the esteemed honor of meeting another Avenger.

In his defense, he wasn’t actively looking for trouble this time. He wasn’t out searching for alien technology, or for gang ringleaders to lock up. He really was just walking towards the subway station.

The first warning he got, thanks to his hearing, was the sound of destruction – giant heaps of cement hitting the ground, metal tearing, and people screaming. Then the panic started. People of all sorts tore past him, racing in the opposite direction as to where he was walking. He jumped up onto a lamp post to get out of the way, then looked around to find the source of the unrest. He had his suit on under his clothes, so that wouldn’t be a problem. As for the source of the destruction, anyone who’d turned on a TV in the last seven-or-so years would’ve recognized what was wrong. After all, how many seven-foot-tall green men did _you_ know of?

He slipped the mask over his head, and threw his normal clothes in his pack. He then swung his way over to the behemoth of a man, and began pestering him.

“Hey!” He yelled, throwing a web grenade at him, followed by landing on his shoulder, and flinging himself back off before he could be grabbed. “Hey, Ugly! Yeah, _you,_ you lime-flavored toothpick! Come and get it!”

It was _not_ his smartest plan; not by far. But there were too many people here. He needed to get the Hulk away, preferably to someplace secluded and uninhabited. How far was he from Central Park? He glanced at the skyline quickly as he instinctively leapt to another perch. The Hulk was faster than a guy his size had any right to be. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. He was about half-a-mile away. It was close enough.

Where were the cops? He thought. With the Hulk raging around, you’d expect at least Iron Man to show up. Maybe he just happened to be first on the scene? The Hulk made another grab for him, roaring. Damn, he was fast. Nothing for it, then. It was too dangerous to leave the Hulk there, and he knew there was nothing going on in Central Park today; otherwise, information about it would’ve appeared in his school.

“Alright, Ugly,” he called to the Hulk, “Let’s go walkies!”

Peter threw another web grenade, which wouldn’t do anything but annoy the beast. It was incredibly strong, and could hold most things, but to Hulk, it was as useful as silly-string. With that, he took off, going slow enough that Hulk could keep up. He leapt building to building, with the Hulk’s roars nipping at his heels. It took, miraculously, only about five minutes to get there. Whenever Peter hit a new building, he scanned for civilians. Most ran instinctively, but one or two that couldn’t – a toddler here, a wheelchair-bound lady there – he webbed to safety. The Hulk did a bit of property damage, but it was better than any people being around. Only once they hit the trees, and Peter could see no-one nearby enough to be in danger, did he begin trying to corral the beast.

“Alright,” he said placatingly, “alright, alright…”

He kept one ear towards the sky, hoping to hear the sound of thrusters coming his way. However, he heard nothing. Where was everyone? With the Accords in place, surely entire barricades had to have been set up? Avengers should be helping? Police, at least, should be here; shouldn’t they? Peter didn’t get a lot of time to ponder this, as the Hulk still wanted to crush him into spider-goo. He bounded from tree to tree, never stopping for longer than five seconds. He needed a plan to bring this to a stop, before they drifted back into civilization.

“Hey, Hulk!” He called out. It was mostly unnecessary, because he had the Hulk’s undivided attention. “I need you to chill out a little, big guy! Can you do that for me?”

“RAAAGGGGHHHHHH!” Hulk answered. He took that as a ‘no’.

He leapt again, landing just far enough away to give himself breathing room. He tried to problem solve his way out of this, and as he so often did, Uncle Ben’s voice came back to advise him. ‘If you find yourself in trouble, just ask yourself; what fixes the problem, and how do I get it?’ Little things like that were often repeated during Peter’s youth, to encourage him to think.

“Okay,” He said, mainly to help keep himself calm. “What’s first?” Well, he needed Hulk to calm down; that was pretty obvious. But how did he make that happen?

“Hey!” He yelled, “Wanna hear a joke?”

Alright, not his finest idea. In fact, it was a day for dumb ideas. But he was running out of time. He didn’t yet know his own bodies limitations, and the more he dragged this out, the more trouble he could be in. He couldn’t rely on Mr. Stark always being there to help, as much as the thought pained him. He knows his suit must’ve sent some kind of distress signal, and all the damage downtown had to be on someone’s radar; yet no-one was here. He had to fix this himself.

The Hulk dove for him again, and this time, he only just slipped out of his grasp. It was the closest Hulk had come to grabbing him so far. Peter only just realized how well his head would fit into the Hulk’s gigantic palm – and how easily it could crush him.

“uh…” he thought quickly. “How many ears does Spock have?”

The Hulk’s fist landed an inch behind Peter’s heels. Was it his imagination, or was the Hulk getting even faster?

“Wrong,” he said. “He has a left ear, a right ear, and a final front-ear. Get it?”

“RAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!” Hulk answered. He must not have gotten it.

“Okay, I can be flexible,” Peter said, bouncing off one low-hanging tree branch, and landing on another. “Knock, knock?”

The Hulk’s fist grazed by Peter as he jumped. Peter wasn’t imagining anything. He _was_ getting faster. He was learning to keep pace, and to predict Peter’s movements. Crap.

“I’ll take that as a ‘whose there?’.” He said, starting to climb upwards, so that the Hulk would have to jump to reach him. “The answer is, ‘cows go’.”

Going up was his last defense; he knew he had incredible endurance, but he was starting to feel the exhaustion. Even he could only go for so long. The Hulk jumped again, and to Peter’s shock, he aimed for just above where he thought Peter would jump. As Peter moved, the Hulk was there, and his fist wrapped around Peter’s neck.

He gasped, but no air made it too his lungs. The Hulk squeezed slowly, choking him out. His fist was too big for just Peter’s neck; it enfolded the top of his shoulders as well. The pain was building gradually, and Peter realized with mute horror, that the Hulk was going to do this _slowly._ He was going to be malicious. Dully, the fear he’d felt under Thoome’s warehouse came back; the crushing weight, the inability to breathe, the overwhelming sense of failure.

“No,” he managed to choke out, “It’s not ‘cows go who?’ It’s ‘cows go _moo’_.” 

Why, oh why, was he the way he was? Why was finishing that corny joke the last thing he planned to do with his life? What was _the matter_ with him?

To the surprise of Peter more than anyone else, the Hulk paused, stunned. He still looked angry, but now Peter saw genuine puzzlement in his face. If Hulk could put full sentences together, he probably would’ve said, ‘What the _ever-loving fuck_ did you smoke before coming out here?’ And Peter wouldn’t have had an answer.

To his utter amazement, Hulk’s grip loosened. Peter sucked in a surprised gulp of air, and his spotty vision slowly eased back to normal. The hand around his neck gently shrank down to a normal size, and the skin went from green to a tanned olive. The face that appeared in front of him was the Hulk’s, but smaller, softer, and somewhat hysterical.

“A knock-knock joke,” the man whispered, jaw slack and eyes wide. “I can’t believe it. A _goddamn_ knock-knock joke.”

His eyes rolled into the back of their sockets, and his head lolled to one side. He passed out; which wasn’t such a good thing, since they were about sixty-five feet up a tree. Peter dove, grabbed the man, and using the last remnants of his web-fluid, made a make shift rope to lower them to the ground at a much more measured pace.

Just then, sirens whirred from somewhere nearby. The sound of a helicopter flying closer and closer appeared above him, and Peter swore vividly. No. Nope. Absolutely not. He remembered Mr. Stark talking about the Hulk, and about Dr. Banner; and he knew that whatever the cops – or Homeland Security – had planned for him, it wouldn’t be good.

He carefully gathered the – unfortunately and traumatically – naked doctor into his arms, and started walking.

…

When Dr. Banner woke up the next morning, at roughly ten-thirty, Peter had awkwardly dressed him in a pair of boxer shorts and an old pair of sweatpants. They shouldn’t have fit him, but he was so skinny and ill-looking, that they worked perfectly. He’d been wrapped in soft blankets; his hair had had the tangles brushed out. Peter had a bowl of warm chicken-noodle soup and a mug of coffee waiting for him, as well.

He’d crashed at Ned’s place, after grabbing his backpack of gifts. You’ll have to forgive him, but he was not rich. If May got wind of this (as in the Hulk, not the gifts), she’d have a heart-attack. He was lucky – Ned’s parents were out for the weekend, and he’d been left in the care of an apathetic babysitter. It couldn’t have been a more perfect arrangement.

Ned’s room was done in shades of blue and white, with some purple thrown in. His parents weren’t Rockefeller-wealthy, but they did okay for themselves, so his room was actually spacious and well-decorated. The bed was pressed against the window, and the large desk was covered in papers, stationary, and other bits-and-bobs. Dawn had just broken, and although you could see outside, the sun was yet to peak over the horizon.

The doctor blinked his eyes open slowly, clearly disorientated. On second thought, Peter added an entire bottle of Tylenol to the breakfast tray. The guy must be nursing a Hulk-sized hangover.

“Hey, man,” he greeted, keeping his voice low. “Hey- rise and shine. You gotta get up now.”

Dr. Banner focused on him with trouble, and blinked sluggishly. Ned, from his place by the desk, almost squealed. Peter shot him a look, and he forced himself to calm down. The last thing Banner needed right now was a fanboy attack.

“Who are you?” He asked, starting to properly wake up. “Where- Where am I?”

“It’s okay,” Peter assured him, smiling. He gestured to his suit, which he still wore, even though Ned had been nervously fiddling with the mask to keep his hands busy. “I’m the guy you fought last night. My name’s Spiderman, and I work with Tony Stark. I won’t hurt you.”

He handed over the Tylenol and coffee, and Banner’s eyes zeroed in on them like lasers. He grabbed the painkillers and poured what must’ve been half the bottle into his mouth, then drank the full mug of coffee in one go. Peter and Ned watched this with wide eyes, and shared a dumbfounded look.

Peter wordlessly handed over the now-cool soup, and it disappeared with even more vigor.

“Uh,” Peter didn’t know what to say, “Want some more?”

Dr. Banner nodded weakly. “Yeah…In a sec. Let the painkillers work.”

Peter nodded, and sat on the edge of the bed to wait. For the first time since he’d gotten to Ned’s, he checked out his phone; and immediately regretted it.

 _299 new texts. 103 missed calls._ And according to Ned’s new anti-virus software, 4 attempts to track the phone’s location. He cringed, and settled back against the wall the bed was pressed against. He was bone-tired and sore all over. He hadn’t noticed the night before, but the Hulk had gotten a few good swipes in, and Peter was now covered in bruises. Even though he healed fast, it would take days for the contusions to fade; especially the one around his neck. The suit covered most of it, but he also knew the suit needed to come off before he could treat them.

He glanced at Ned, and his friend nodded seriously. He used sign language, which he and Peter had learned as kids, in order to talk behind their parent’s backs. ‘Going to get more food. Stay here?’ Peter signed ‘Go’; a gesture made by flattening one hand horizontally, palm up, and using the other to mime a pair of legs walking over the hand. Ned nodded again, a sign that needed no decoding, and left. Glancing at Dr. Banner, Peter noticed that the man was barely awake. His eyes were half-lidded and glazed-over.

Peter thought it safe to try and answer one or two calls. He was very, very wrong. He started with May.

“PETER BENJAMIN PARKER, HOW _DARE_ YOU SKIP CURFEW AND _FIGHT_ AN _AVENGER._ Do you have any _Goddamn_ idea what kind of panic I’ve been feeling? Tell me you aren’t injured, because I swear _to God,_ if you are-”

“Whoa, whoa, I’m okay!” He reassured her. “I’m fine. Really. There was just a slight… emergency.”

“A SLIGHT EMERGENCY?!” She screeched, voice cracking. “You FOUGHT the HULK. Tony Stark has called me _eight times_ to ask where you were because he couldn’t track your phone, and he didn’t know _what_ was happening, and we’ve both been _so scared-”_  

To his absolute horror, she started to cry. Not dainty, TV-worthy crying, but full-on, snotty, noisy, messy sobbing. Peter would rather go ten more rounds with the Hulk than have to be the person who made his aunt cry like that. But something she had said caught his ears.

“Hey, Aunt May,” he asked, “You said Tony called you to find out where I was? Why didn’t he track the suit, or come help me himself? Was something up?”

It took her a moment to regain her composure, but she finally spoke. “Is that _really_ your biggest concern right now? _God,_ Peter-”

“Please?” He begged. “I’m actually very worried. That’s not in-character for Tony.”

He would later note that he’d called Mr. Stark ‘Tony’, for the first time, and he hadn’t even noticed; but that was not his primary concern right now. May sighed, then he heard her voice echo from farther off.

“Mr. Hogan, do you know…”

Peter stopped listening just then, because Dr. Banner had been staring at him for a while now, and that was mixture of incredibly cool and somewhat mortifying. He reached down to yank a contraband packet of chips out from under the bed, where Ned had mistakenly assumed it would be safe. He handed it over, and Dr. Banner took it gratefully; though his attention remained on Peter.

“Peter?” His aunt’s voice drifted through the phone, now clear.

“Yeah?” He answered.

“Mr. Hog- sorry, Happy says that F.R.I.D.A.Y., who runs Tony’s suits when he can’t, was temporarily down for general maintenance and bug-fixing, and that Tony himself had been in Sokovia aiding reconstruction at that point in time. It took him four hours to fly back, and by that point, you and the Hulk had disappeared. Also, apparently, you removed the last tracker from your suit, and the new one had scattered your location over a twenty-kilometer radius for reasons he is still trying to figure out. He also wants to talk to you, so I’m patching him through now. Please be home as soon as possible.”

Peter barely got the, “Wait, no, _stop-_ ” out before his aunt was cut off.

“Hey, kid,” Tony sounded somewhere between furious, worried sick, and dead-tired. “Care to explain _what the fuck_ happened last night?”

Peter wordlessly handed the phone to Dr. Banner, who watched it like it was about to explode. He clutched the chips to his chest in fear, but a pleading look from Peter had him gingerly taking it.

“Hey, Tony,” Dr. Banner greeted quietly, voice raw and cracking, and the upset tirade on the other end of the line choked to quiet. Then, softer than Peter had ever heard him, Tony came back. “Bruce?”

Bruce smiled, and ten years were erased from his face. At the sound of Tony’s voice, his body seemed to travel through time; wounds less severe, face less lined, body less stiff. He almost looked human, and not like a sickly, mummified corpse.

“Where are you?” Tony asked, voice still quiet. Bruce looked at Peter, and Peter told him what to say. “Ned Leed’s house. He’s a friend. His address is in the school system for Midtown Prep.”

It took Tony five minutes to get there, and Ned barely held it together long enough to show him to the bedroom. Peter had given Dr. Banner all the no-prep food they had gathered; chocolates, chips, soups, fruit. The man ate like he’d never seen food before in his life. Peter shimmied the suit down to his waist so that he could treat the bruises, and immediately regretted it. Dr. Banner physically cringed at the unmistakable hand-shaped marks circling from Peter’s neck to his collarbone.

Peter quickly threw on a vest when he heard footsteps outside the door, but realized too late it was Ned’s; it hung off of him like a blanket, and covered nothing.

Tony marched in, and his eyes found Bruce sitting on the bed in his borrowed clothes; emaciated, sick, and frail, but fed and cleaned. His shoulders sagged in relief, until his eyes found Peter. They went straight to his neck, and Peter watched as every drop of blood left his mentor’s face.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “I think I need to sit down.”

Ned didn’t hesitate to grab his desk chair and offer it, and Tony dropped like his body weighed a ton. Bruce’s face had furrowed, and guilt eased tangibly out of every pore in his body. A moment of silence passed between them while Peter gently tried to cover up and Ned stood there awkwardly, like a butler waiting to be called for. Finally, Tony put his head in his hands.

“What happened?” He asked, exhausted.

Peter explained how he’d been heading to the subway to surprise them with their Christmas gifts, when he’d stumbled over the Hulk. He’d had to walk past the old Avengers Tower to get there, and found the Hulk on his way to the same place.

“I mean,” he said, “I guess that’s where he wanted to go? I can’t think of anything else in that direction the Hulk could want.”

Tony nodded for him to continue.

“He was causing a lot of damage, so I lured him to Central Park, where there’d be less people and less danger. Then-”

“Wait,” Tony interrupted, “‘Lured’? Lured _how?_ ”

“Um,” Peter wished he had an answer to that question that wouldn’t shave ten years off of Tony’s lifespan due to stress. “I Maybe baited him?”

_“With?”_

“…Myself?”

Tony put his head back into his hands. Bruce hissed in sympathy. Ned’s eyes went wide.

“How did you even survive?” Tony asked, muffled through his fingers.

“Well, I calmed him down,” Peter answered. “Then I grabbed Dr. Banner, and brought him here before the cops-”

 _“You calmed him down?”_ Tony demanded, shooting upright. “Y- How-” He looked at Bruce, who nodded seriously from his spot on the bed.

Tony looked at Peter like he’d never seen him before. Peter tried not to let that go to his head, he did, but he had to bite down a smile. He still didn’t know if he was in trouble or not.

“How?” Tony demanded, “How the _hell_ did you get _him_ to chill?”

Peter pursed his lips. Looked away. Braced himself, then looked back. Bruce, thank God, answered for him.

“Knock-knock jokes,” he said, popping another jelly bean into his mouth. “He used knock-knock jokes. The Hulk had never heard them before, and was confused enough to stop being angry.” Bruce went on calmly eating, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. Peter put his hands in his lap and stared at the floor. Ned looked like he wanted to give Peter a piece of his mind, but didn’t want to lose it with Tony there. And Tony?

Tony looked like he was so torn between hysterical tears and gut-wrenching laughter, that he didn’t know how to behave. His face was blank. His jaw had dropped. He suddenly looked sixty-years-old. For a good, long moment, Peter was sure he’d broken him. He was going to go down in history as the guy who broke Iron Man, because of knock-knock jokes.

“I…I…” He let out a bone-deep sigh. “I give up. Move over.”

Peter shuffled over in surprise as Tony collapsed on the bed, half splayed over Bruce. He let his head flop onto his friend’s, and his legs dangled off the other side. Bruce snatched the last of his jelly beans to his chest, knowing that Tony’s love of food would eventually give out to his loyalty to his fellow scientist.

“I must be drunk,” Tony muttered. “Drunk or high. Those are the only explanations for this chain of events. I’m clocking out for a few hours to get sober. If anyone asks, I’m doing something heroic.”

Peter watched as, true to his word, Tony fell asleep on top of Bruce, who was slowly starting to relax and look more alert. He glanced over at Peter, who analyzed all of this with bemused fondness, before shaking his head and standing. He walked to the door, and shared a hushed conversation with his friend, who Bruce was yet to talk to at length. Peter shot them another look, then grabbed his presents, clothes, bag, and mask. With a quick wave back at Bruce, he crept down the stairs and out the house soundlessly.

Bruce was…not surprised. Amazed and completely impressed, but not surprised. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on here; Tony had a _kid._ A genetically engineered, incredibly intelligent, brashly reckless kid. Honestly, Bruce didn’t know how something like this could’ve stayed hidden, when Tony was in the spotlight so much; but if anyone would’ve managed, it was him.

Later on, they’d discovered that the cause for the tracker malfunction was radiation. The tracker in the suit was susceptible to radioactivity, and the Hulk was as radioactive as a nuclear waste plant. Tony kicked himself over it, and although Peter tried to reassure him, Bruce could see the guilt was eating at him. Peter stayed at the new compound sometimes, as Bruce discovered. He’d get up at six-thirty, make breakfast for everyone, and talk to Bruce about neuroscience and bioengineering till he was blue in the face.

Much like Tony, Peter loved Bruce. He talked about the advancements Bruce had made in the study of radiation, and often asked his advice on school projects. Bruce was happy for some positive human interaction, and Peter, with his endless curiosity and bright personality, was perfect. It helped that Bruce knew the kid could handle the Hulk if push came to shove.

They talked about Peter’s genetic mutation, which Bruce was amazed to find was caused by an accident involving radioactivity – just like him! In fact, trying to figure out what was happening to him was the catalyst for Peter’s interest in bioengineering, whereas previously, he’d been much more technologically-inclined. When Tony found out about this, he dramatically mourned the loss of a brilliant would-be mechanic.

He and Tony butted heads sometimes. Tony was protective, as most fathers were, and Peter was recklessly eager to please. But none of their arguments were serious, and they were always resolved by day’s end.

They celebrated Christmas together. Peter’s aunt May was an Italian woman, who was sweet and kind with Bruce; if understandably cautious. Although shy, she got along well with the others, who treated her respectfully. Rhodey and Pepper welcomed him back with open arms, and Vision greeted him politely. Bruce was surprised at the emptiness; he wanted to see the rest of the team. Where was Sam, and Nat, and Steve, and Wanda?

When he’d been told that a civil war had broken out in his absence, he was stunned. How had the Avengers been so expertly manipulated by one man? Tony had no good answer, nor did anyone else, and eventually, Bruce let the subject drop.

For the first few days, Tony let Bruce heal. When he did finally bring up the Accords, Bruce was understandably skittish. He admitted that he’d rather wait until the Accords had been amended somewhat to allow privacy to be respected and restrictions around the Avengers’ actions loosened. Bruce had been wronged by the government before, and he didn’t want to make another mistake like that.

Tony was disappointed, but unsurprised. He was also very lenient, and allowed Bruce to remain at the compound completely anonymously. He’d agreed with the necessity of the Accords, but with the Raft and other such systems in place, Tony also agreed that it needed a lot of amending.

Tony had also placed a new protocol for Peter. Apparently, he did that a lot these days; making sure his kid had help and support in whatever he did. The names of these protocols only encouraged Bruce’s line of thinking. The _‘Training Wheels’_ protocol, the ‘ _Baby Monitor’_ protocol, the _‘Lullaby’_ protocol. It was nice to know that Tony was as obsessive with his kid’s safety as he was with making his suits. It was proof, farther than anything else, that Peter was in good hands.

_-fin-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Just something I scribbled to get back on the writing wagon, so that I can keep working on 'And the Consequences Thereof'. Don't worry - I haven't abandoned anything! I hope you enjoy this, and that you all had a decent New Year. May 2018 not emotionally destroy and publicly humiliate humanity like 2016 and 2017 did:)


	7. Notification!

Hey guys! This is now a series. I hope you like my new work!:)


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